


haven't stopped loving you yet

by otshineon (alexscarlet)



Category: SHINee
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Engagement, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Panic Attacks, Romance, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Swearing, Triggers, everyone should have a minho, kibum is at a low point, luckily he has his lovely fiancé minho, the truth of living with/recovering from depression is that this happens, which sometimes just swoop out of fucking nowhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5425856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexscarlet/pseuds/otshineon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kibum doesn't always see his self-worth, but in the times he doesn't, Minho is always there to see it for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	haven't stopped loving you yet

**Author's Note:**

> This is very triggering so please, please be careful! Warnings: anxiety, panic disorder, depression, referenced self harm, self hate and swearing.
> 
> Shoutout to my betas Elly and Ally, much love~
> 
> \----------------------------------------
> 
> It's the sad truth; when you're recovering from depression, you can have weeks where everything is fine.
> 
> And then you'll have days like these. 
> 
> Kibum hates days like these with a passion; they swoop out of fucking nowhere and leave him feeling useless, useless, useless. 
> 
> He's so glad Minho's around to tell him he's not.
> 
> (In which Minho loves Kibum and just wishes Kibum would love himself too.)

**haven’t stopped loving you yet**

 

Kibum doesn’t feel _super_ low, but he does feel empty and weak and pathetic and like he’s going to cry and like nothing matters.

 

The key clatters against the lock because his hand is shaking too much. The rattle cuts up Kibum’s arm and shreds his lungs. Kibum pauses, has to, otherwise he’d just collapse with his back to their door and curl up into a ball and probably be found by one of their neighbours. Which wouldn’t be fun, really.

 

Deep breaths. Lungs heal. The dusk air burns his throat and that makes him relax. It’s familiar. It’s somehow reassuring. Oxygen tingling to the cells at his fingertips, so his hand steadies. The key slots into the lock and he flicks the door open with practiced swiftness, tumbles into the darkness of their flat - remembers not to leave the key behind.

 

Darkness. Minho isn’t home yet, then.

 

Right, _right_. Minho has had a conference all day.

 

He’ll be tired when he comes home, and hungry. Kibum thinks he might have promised to make dinner, but he can’t quite recall. Either way, he should cook something. Minho deserves that, at least?

 

Kibum stands, feet cemented and upper body swaying slightly with fatigue, in the black hallway, and can’t move forward for the life of him. Why, why, _why_ …?

 

Useless.

 

Once he’s thought the word, that’s all he can think, of course. Useless, useless, useless.

 

Finally he is forced to move, with his knees wobbling too much. Kibum runs his hand along the wall for guidance, even though he knows this place like the back of his hand. There’s something grounding, something supportive about the feeling of the bumpy paint under his palm. Like the little apartment is helping him stay upright, helping him stay together.

 

Kibum drops his satchel and nearly trips when his feet tangle in one of the straps. Something so simple and yet he-

 

_Useless._

Kibum’s brain is just a mess of vague ‘no’s and ‘I can’t do this anymore’s. It’s nothing in particular. Nothing drastic. It’s just this all-pervasive mood of…despair?

 

Whatever it is, it settles thickly over the living room furniture, like dust in an abandoned place, smothering the life he and Minho had brought to the flat, with laughs and licks of paint that ended up more in Kibum’s hair and nose than on the walls, the vibrant yet soft pastels and the quirky chairs that match the sofas and the table nonetheless.

 

Racers on the road below, the echoing and excited revs of expensive engines. Apart from that it is as silent as death. Kibum’s breath catches and that tiny gasp is enough to start the dull thud of a headache. He collapses on the sofa, imagining he can see his desolate helplessness puffing up in a white dust cloud at his heavy disturbance. He chokes on it.

 

Kibum rolls over to bury his face in the cushions, and in doing so brushes his toes against a piece of paper on the coffee table. It makes a noise and now he wants to bash his head against a wall.

 

Why is life?

 

The cushions threaten to devour him, so Kibum lurches off the sofa. His body is numb, though the sudden standing makes his head spin. He already had a headache and now it gets worse, the tightness squeezing around his head, pressing in as if to make him implode. How easy is it to crack a skull?

 

He catches sight, out of the corner of his eye, of a discarded biscuit wrapper from a packet he and Minho shared last night. He says _shared_ ; but he ate most of them. Kibum suddenly wants throw up, his stomach crushing in on itself, twisting, the acid roiling, climbing up into his chest and burning through his ribcage.

 

Snatching the wrapper up, he runs to the kitchen and shoves it deep into the bin, then washes his hands under blistering water, scrubbing until his hands are raw.

 

The hand cloth isn’t there; he remembers, abruptly, throwing it in the washing machine this morning. He tries wiping his hands on his jeans but that doesn’t make them completely dry and the scratch of the jeans against his hands is just _horrible,_ so he whines and scrambles out of the kitchen to stand in the middle of the living room, shaking his hands so hard his wrists click and his whole body quivers.

 

When he stops, Kibum sinks to the floor, panting for breath as he rolls onto the fluffy cream living room carpet. He can easily remember the day they went shopping for it; Minho out of his suits and looking effortlessly gorgeous in tight jeans and a dark blue jumper with little white stars sewn into it that Kibum had bought him for his birthday.

 

It had been the end of autumn when they’d moved in and they had had to hurry to furnish everything before the Christmas rush. Of course, they had bits and pieces from their own homes, including engagement presents such as the beautiful chest of drawers Kibum’s parents gave them. The gift from Minho’s parents had been a promise of fancy silver cutlery when they actually get married; Kibum can’t wait to hold lovely dinner parties and show off, can picture perfectly the proud shine in Minho’s eyes as he watches Kibum be the perfect host.

 

Kibum had refused to buy anything without both of them agreeing on it, from the carpet - Minho originally wanted bright red, worried the cream would dirty too quickly, but Kibum’s admission that it reminded him of blood had steered Minho back to the true path - to the hand soap by the bathroom sink. (Which, by the way, smells amazing. Sometimes Minho has to remind Kibum that washing his hands _just once is enough_.)

 

Now, Kibum buries his nose into the carpet and curls into the foetal position, tucking his head down to his knees.

 

He misses Minho a lot.

 

He knows it’s only a temporary thing, that Minho is near to closing a deal and has to run around confirming last minute details, knows that he’s selfish to get frustrated and particularly to aim that frustration at Minho, when he comes home with his shoulders steeped in exhaustion and still manages to smile radiantly when he finds Kibum waiting with dinner on the table.

 

That’s not happening tonight, though, the dinner and the smiling, Kibum thinks bitterly, and somehow curls up smaller.

 

Smaller and smaller, until he can disappear.

 

Kibum tries to stop thinking; he just needs to stop _thinking_. He lets his eyes slip shut and focuses on the physical, focuses on the real.

 

The carpet - the carpet is soft, the fluff tickling up Kibum’s bare arms like it wants to hold Kibum, wrap him up and keep him safe.

 

Somebody in a flat nearby is playing rock music far too loudly. Kibum appreciates it, the walls between them enough that it’s not invasively loud, but just enough to reassure him that he’s not alone in the world. Sometimes it’s comforting and sometimes it’s not, but tonight Kibum revels in the fact that there are other people in the world, different people with different lives.

 

People who have no experiences with death, those constantly surrounded with it; people that are old and feel young, people just like him who are young and already want their lives to end; people who are optimistic, people who are pessimistic with low expectations making everything appear better than it is. People who work hard and people who, like Kibum, sometimes can’t get out of bed in the morning. People who live for sport, the competition and adrenaline rush, arty people who walk around with their heads in the clouds and paint across their knuckles, people with knuckles grazed from getting into fights at bars; people whose lives are far worse than his, and people whose lives are far better.

 

Beyond that, Kibum can hear the cars along the roads. Kibum blinks his eyes open, though the room is so dark it barely makes a difference, only the very last rays of sunlight lingering behind, streaking the sky with dark pinks and purples as the navy black begins to steal over everything. Kibum’s breath huffs against his wrists and he squints to see the fading scars.

 

It hurts to see them fade. Those scars, they mean _so much_. They’re a tangible, real display of everything he went through. Kibum hasn’t told anyone about them, not really. Minho’s seen them, of course, has kissed them tenderly in the middle of the night, when he thinks Kibum has fallen asleep after sex, his lips cautious and soft and sad; but they haven’t talked about it. The phrase ‘mental health’ has been sobbed at his parents, once or twice.

 

( _It took me so much, it was, it was so hard to even mention my mental health earlier and you just dismissed it? It’s even hard to say it now, because we…it’s like we keep trying to ignore how bad the last few years have been, it’s like you think that if we don’t talk about it, it’ll just go away, it won’t have happened, but that’s not how it works. If I fucking manage to say anything about it, please, please, don’t just brush me off. It takes a lot of courage even to think about it._ )

 

And if the scars fade, it’s all back in Kibum’s mind again and he can’t…

 

He doesn’t want the world to be oblivious yet again to how much, how _hard_ he’s had to struggle just to get here. To remain here. He doesn’t want the pain to fade from the Earth’s memory. He can’t deal with having it all locked back up inside his head. The more the scars fade, the worse his headaches get.

 

Kibum needs something to let him know that he didn’t just imagine all that pain, all those nights when death occupied every thought, when self hate smothered every inch of his skin and his sharp nails tore his soul apart. He needs something to remind him it was _real_.

 

Kibum crawls to the balcony doors, uses the handles to pull himself to his feet then unlocks them. Stumbling over the little step down, Kibum leaves the stagnant, dusty apartment and leans against the rickety railing, presses into the wind. The nighttime breeze buffets his face, licks across his cheeks, tangles and untangles his long black curls. The sun reels in its burgundy stranglers and the sky is left in inky blackness, seeping down to lie protectively over Kibum’s skin, armour against the world and simultaneously fusing Kibum with it. Stars above and streetlights below blur, as the wind whips tears into Kibum’s black eyes.

 

“Bummie?”

 

Kibum flinches, nearly throws himself over the railing and into the safe arms of the night, but a second later his body recognises that deep, velveteen voice calling his name so gently. He turns from the sky and finds Minho standing, framed by the balcony doors. The living room is still dark behind him, and Kibum wonders if Minho realises he can’t deal with light right now.

 

Minho must have taken his jacket off but he’s still in his suit, smart trousers covering those lovely legs and wrinkled white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, showing off his toned forearms. Kibum takes all this in with a quick glance before his eyes settle on Minho’s face.

 

Minho’s eyes are terrified.

 

Kibum tenses instinctively, abandons the railing to trip over to Minho, to gather Minho in his arms.

 

“Min? Darling, what’s wrong? Are you ok?” Kibum hears his own voice but doesn’t seem to have any input, words tumbling out in an unstoppable waterfall. His hands stroke Minho’s arms before settling, one on Minho’s waist and the other cupping Minho’s jaw. Minho sags into Kibum’s warmth.

 

“Shut up, shut up.” Minho collapses against him, one arm around Kibum’s shoulders and the other slipping around Kibum’s waist, wrapping around Kibum’s back, pulling Kibum closer. He mumbles the words into Kibum’s neck. “Don’t do that to me.”

 

“Me?” Even as Kibum’s tongue forms the word, he realises. His hands fall, one onto Minho’s shoulder, the other by his side, weak, sapped of their strength. He freezes in Minho’s embrace, struggling to slide his defences back into place.

 

But he’s tired, so tired, and his walls are spidered with hairline cracks.

 

“Yes, idiot. Idiot, idiot.” Minho cries against Kibum’s pulse, as his own races under Kibum’s fingertips.

 

Kibum is torn. Minho’s warmth against him is so familiar, feels like home, but Kibum’s body is tingling, his skin itching, his blood throbbing through his veins.

 

“Let go, Minho.” Minho doesn’t listen. Kibum panics instantly; Minho usually listens, why won’t he let go, Kibum is trapped, trapped in the cage of Minho’s arms, in his own skin, everything feels wrong, wrong, “Minho, let go!” Kibum screams. He doesn’t feel himself scream, but he hears it. He hears Minho’s sharp intake of breath as he quickly withdraws his arms, releases Kibum so he can stumble away, back to the safety of the fragile railing, gasping in the midnight air.

 

“Don’t do that again.” Kibum pleads, voice catching, trembling like a tiny bird ready to fly at any moment. “Please, Min.” There are tears weighing heavily within his chest, beading like blood out of a cut, droplets of saltwater in his ribcage. “Please don’t, don’t.”

 

He wanted to talk, didn’t he? He wanted somebody besides the night sky to hear his sobs, and here is the person he loves most in the world, looking at him like he’s the most beautiful, broken thing. Kibum isn’t broken, though, and maybe that’s why he hasn’t told anyone. Because if they treat him differently…how is he to know whether it will be better or worse?

 

They might treat him more carefully. But who knows if they won’t just start seeing him as a broken _thing_ , a something to be fixed, or most horrifically, something _too broken to be fixed_? No, no, he couldn’t bear it.

 

“Kibum-“

 

“I’m fine.” The words taste like acid in his mouth.

 

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “I love you.”

 

Kibum crumples, sags against the railing until even that can’t keep him standing, collapses in the balcony corner, curling up tighter and tighter.

 

Minho says it again, “Kibum, I love you.”

 

Kibum blinks up through the gathering tears at the gorgeous, handsome, intelligent, hardworking, strong, kind, cheeky, funny, stubborn man, crouching before him with eyes that do nothing to disprove what the mouth is saying. His chocolate brown eyes spell only _I love you_.

 

Kibum doesn’t deserve this at all. He craves it, he longs for it, his whole body aches to reach out for Minho’s large, familiar hand, to crawl over and into Minho’s arms, to press himself against Minho’s chest and listen to Minho’s heartbeat. But he can’t. He can’t, because how does he - stupid, ugly, lazy, fat, rude, boring, bothersome, anxious, _useless Kibum_ \- how on Earth does _he_ deserve even a drop of Minho’s love? Minho’s affection? The heated protectiveness and gentle worry, the painful guilt and desperate helplessness in every line of Minho’s body?

 

“Please, Min.” The words bubble out of Kibum’s chest, where his lungs are slowly filling with water, where he’s drowning. “Just don’t bother.”

 

Minho stands up, his knees cracking, and disappears back inside.

 

Kibum leans his head back against the side of the balcony, where the railings corner, and opens his mouth and wails. He feels hideous, knows he looks terrible like this and doesn’t even care, or rather, does care, and revels in the utter destruction of his armoured walls, the letting go, the uncontrollable nature of his sobs. His lungs are swollen with tearwater but around them he feels empty, hollow, like the merest touch could shatter him.

 

The tears swallow the stars in the sky and burn the streetlights into tiny supernovas lining the familiar streets. Night rushes in, filling the place where Minho was sat, coddling Kibum like he’s a newborn baby. He wishes he were. He wishes he could go back and start all over again.

 

“Baby.” Kibum doesn’t reply, throat too closed up, couldn’t reply even if he wanted to, and he doesn’t want to.

 

Minho sits next to him, close enough that Kibum can read the fine print on the worn pyjama shirt he’s wearing but not close enough for their skin to touch. Minho leans back against the railings too, lets his head fall back so the column of his neck is exposed, and shuts his eyes. Kibum can’t breathe, tries to blink away the tears that blind him so he can focus on the small shift of his lover’s chest up and down with every inhale and exhale, so he can see Minho’s profile in all its glory. But he can’t; they keep falling, splotching his shirt with dark patches.

 

“Baby, please let me hold you. Please let me cuddle you. _Please_.” Minho keeps his eyes shut but he slips towards Kibum a little before controlling himself. His arms twitch. Kibum wants to laugh, does so, a horrific sob-laugh combination. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand then reaches out with a shaking hand and latches onto the low-scooping collar of Minho’s too-big t-shirt. Minho’s eyes open slowly, like he’s scared opening them too fast will scare Kibum away; Kibum laughs again, uncontrollable little bursts of breathless giggles. “Can I?” Minho asks, that deep voice rumbling through the night to immerse Kibum in warmth.

 

Kibum nods and Minho gently pulls Kibum onto his lap. Kibum curls up small, loving how tiny and safe he feels in Minho’s protection. He tucks his cold toes between Minho’s thighs, which are bare below the blue patterned boxers Minho has changed into. Kibum bought those for him, too. They were meant to be a Christmas present but Minho was going on a business trip and realised all his pants were dirty and Kibum had pulled the already wrapped underwear out from under the bed (behind their box of ‘sexy things’) and thrown it at his head, laughing at the happy surprise on Minho’s face. Minho had kissed all over his face before rushing out of the door to the awaiting taxi.

 

Later, he had texted Kibum a picture of him in the huge hotel room wearing them, with the caption ‘ _wish you were here’_. He assured Kibum he didn’t need another Christmas present, but Kibum has snuck out to get him a little something nevertheless. He sneaks peeks at it every night before bed. Kibum wants to see Minho’s happily surprised face again, wants a face of kisses before having the time to strip Minho’s clothes off and worship Minho’s body with his lips and his tongue and words of endearment.

 

He wonders if Minho will let him, if Minho will think _he_ has to be the one body-worshipping Kibum if Kibum accidentally admits any of his anorexic tendencies. To be honest, he’s surprised Minho hasn’t picked up on them already, the occasional fortnight when Kibum will subsist solely on salad and fruit and coffee.

 

He just doesn’t want things to change, couldn’t bear it if they did. He wants their relationship to stay as equal, as balanced as it is now. If Minho stopped speaking his mind for fear of hurting Kibum, if Minho never asked for sex but only waited for Kibum to initiate things, if, if…

 

He wonders if Minho will want to spend his Christmas Day with somebody like Kibum. Christmas Days are supposed to be _happy_.

 

“…Sweetheart, come on, come back to me _please_. Bummie? Can you hear me?” Minho voice is tight with restrained emotion; fear? Worry? Anger?

 

“Sorry.” Kibum sobs, the word cracking halfway through, his whole face crumpling, his body trembling. He slips his arms around his middle and Minho holds him tighter and it’s like they’re working together to keep Kibum in one piece. Kibum melts into Minho’s warmth, buries his face into Minho’s neck. “Minho.” He cries.

 

“I’m here, baby.” Minho says, and waits for Kibum to calm down a little; eventually Kibum’s tears lessen, and then cease. His eyes sting. The salt caking his cheeks dries. “Bummie? Baby?”

 

Kibum nods, snuggles closer, gazes out over the balcony edge at the empty roads and blinking streetlamps in the distance.

 

Minho’s voice is as deep as the well of Kibum’s sadness. When he speaks, Kibum’s whole body rumbles with the words. “You’re not fat.” Kibum’s insides rip apart. “Even if you were, I would still love you. But you’re so skinny.” Minho gently takes Kibum’s wrist and encircles it with his thumb and index finger. “See?”

 

Minho raises Kibum’s hand to his lips and kisses Kibum’s knuckles, then flips his hand over and noses Kibum’s palm, kisses up to the inside of Kibum’s wrist. “And you’re so strong.” Minho whispers, his breath tickling over the white scars. “I don’t know how you do it, how you’ve kept yourself together for so long, God, Kibum, I wish I had been there to help you. I wish I could’ve been there to stop this, fuck.” Even the swear word sounds like a feather-light touch of his lips.

 

Kibum’s wrist falls quietly from his hands and Minho laces his long, elegant fingers into Kibum’s hair, tilts Kibum’s head to look up at him, through his eyelashes. They’re all stuck together with tears and Kibum wants to look away but Minho’s eyes are molten chocolate. “You’re so intelligent. I’ve never met anyone who learns so fast, who is so eager to learn new things.” Minho’s lips against Kibum’s forehead, his fingernails scratching Kibum’s scalp lightly.

 

“You work so hard.”

 

Kibum shakes his head so viciously it feels as though his neck could snap, and Minho tightens his hold in Kibum’s hair and stops him.

 

“No, Bummie, you do. You’re so passionate about the things you love, so dedicated to them. Who cares if you like sleeping in every now and again? Everyone-“

 

“Min, sometimes I can’t even _move_.” Kibum whispers, bottom lip trembling. 

 

They joke about Minho’s ‘flaming charisma’, but when Minho stares down at Kibum then there’s a fire in his eyes that Kibum has only glimpsed at before.

 

“I know, Kibum. Do you think I’m…?” He takes a deep breath; his chest moving so that Kibum floats then sinks back down. “Kibum, I _love_ you. I pay attention to you, I want to care for you, I want you to be happy. Of course I’ve noticed these things, of course, what do you take me for?” Minho’s face twists, melted by the passion in his eyes into a mess of desperation and helplessness. “Baby, baby, why don’t you understand, these things are just a part of you and I love everything-“

 

“A part of me!” Kibum shrieks, scrambling from Minho’s lap and sprawling upon the cold balcony floor. He feels naked. “They’re not a _part_ of me, Minho, these things, these scars, these mornings, these nights, these days, they’re not me; I-I’m happy, Minho, I’m a happy person, I can _make_ _other people happy_ , that’s the real me. The real me can look after other people and accept affection, can love myself, can love you, like you deserve, that’s the real me, don’t, don’t call this mess _me_. I’m so much better! These _things_ they just get in sometimes, into the cracks, Minho, _if they’re a part of me how can I ever escape them?_ ”

 

Minho breaks in front of his eyes but Kibum doesn’t care, doesn’t care, and cares _too much_. Kibum is crying again, waves of sobs that snap his ribs and puncture his lungs, that drain the marrow from his bones and leave him hollow and empty and pathetic, wailing at the night sky, keening his uselessness to the stars.

 

“Kibum, God, I _never_ meant it like that. Never, never, fucking _hell_ this is a fucking _mess_.”

 

“S-sorry.” Kibum babbles.

 

“Sweetheart, love of my life.” Minho calls him quietly, his deep, infallible voice shattering and snatched away by the wind. “You make me so happy, Kibum. The way you-your nose wrinkles when you laugh and you get dimples in your chin when you try not to smile too much. And your laugh, God, Kibummie it makes me smile every time I hear it, makes me laugh just because you’re laughing. I could listen to you talk forever because the way you look at the world, the way you, fuck, the way you say things is so…you…and so gorgeous, _God_. I’m c-constantly awed by how you s-stand up for what you believe in; I w-wish I were that brave.

 

“Y-you’re _brilliant_ , the way you’re all teasing with Jonghyun but always recognise when he’s having a bad day, your softness with Taemin, how upset you get when you argue with Eunsook and how you always say sorry first because you can’t _bear_ to be fighting with anyone. You’re so good at reading people’s emotions, at understanding people, I’d be fucking screwed if it weren’t for you being all observant and telling me I should be nice to Changmin this week because his wife is in hospital…how the fuck do you even? I can’t think what to buy my m-mum for Christmas, and you’ve already bought our entire friendship group and your whole department presents!

 

“How? How can you think you don’t make me happy _all the time_?” Minho’s voice is raw and growling with fight, with that desperation to tell Kibum. To make Kibum understand. To make Kibum see what Minho sees. Love what Minho loves.

 

“When you cry in front of me it b-breaks my heart, that you’re so sad, but…Kibum. I know, ok, I _know_ how hard it is for you to t-trust people. So in a perverse kind of way, I _love_ it when you scream at me, when you yell, when you cry. All of it is just another way of s-saying you trust me, you love me, and you do, Kibum you _love_ me and you’re so _beautiful_ how could I n-not love you back?”

 

There’s a long silence following that, where Minho gasps in oxygen and frantically wipes the tears from his eyes and Kibum just sits frozen in shock.

 

“You.” All of Minho’s focus is on him instantly when Kibum finally speaks. Kibum’s body feels numb but there’s a flickering of heat just behind his belly button. With puffy lips, he continues, words night-soft and sob-fragile. “You really love this useless thing.” He flaps his hands at his body.

 

“Love, you’re not useless.” Minho whispers, lifting his arms to reach for Kibum again. And Kibum crawls back to him, because Minho loves him. Minho loves him. “None of this is useless.” He kisses the scar through Kibum’s eyebrow, kisses Kibum’s nose. The heat in Kibum’s tummy expands.

 

“I’d be lost without you.” The words are gentle and soft, warm and relaxing, like kicking your shoes off when you get home from a long day out, like snuggling into childhood blankets, like hugging your mum, like the first stolen bite of gooey, homemade brownies, like that leap of faith when you first strip off your clothes. “Kibum, I want to _marry_ you. And I…I adore you.”

 

When Kibum curls up in his arms again, slipping one arm behind Minho’s back, and nuzzling his soggy face into the crook of Minho’s neck, and when Minho pulls Kibum closer with one long arm around Kibum’s body, and laces the fingers of his other hand with Kibum’s fingers, their hearts press together through the layers their t-shirts.

 

And Kibum loves Minho more than ever, and _Minho loves Kibum_ , and Kibum believes it.

 

For the first time since he was fourteen, Kibum thinks about the future and it seems a bit too short.

 

In that moment, _eternity_ would be too short.

 

\---

 

(The next night Kibum returns home to find dinner on the table for the first time since they moved in together, and Minho dancing around the living room in his stupid pink boxers and an old stripy t-shirt. The balcony doors are flung open and the music pours out into the night and he’s lit Kibum’s scented candles, though the fragrance drifts away with the drums. Kibum laughs out loud, breaking Minho from his dancing frenzy, and Minho laughs too, takes Kibum's coat and chucks it onto the sofa and pulls Kibum gently by his hands until they’re spinning round and round on their fluffy carpet, for all the world like they’re invincible.

 

And then Minho trips and Kibum catches him and they end up snogging each other’s faces off and have to reheat dinner in the microwave later. Kibum thinks his heart will burst.)

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the most difficult and one of the easiest things I've ever written. It's very, very close to my heart - I wasn't even sure if I would post it at first - so please don't be mean ;; Thank you for reading, look after yourselves x


End file.
